The Hell of Paradise
by toooldtotrickortreat
Summary: The few remaining Gladers have made it to Paradise, but that doesn't mean they can distance themselves from the hell they've endured. (Oneshot. Bookverse. The Death Cure spoilers)


**Yo. I watched The Death Cure movie right after it came out and it just reignited my love for the books and a bunch of fic ideas. This is only one of them but there will probably be more. Maybe. I feel like The Maze Runner fanfiction archive needs more non-paired fics, because while I don't mind the ships at all, friendship is one of the biggest parts of the story and I feel like it should be shown more in fan-made content. If you know any good non-paired TMR fics then please link them to me and I'll check it out! Anyway, on to the story~**

* * *

 _"Kill me or I'll kill you. Kill me! Do it!"_

 _"Newt…"_

 _"Do it before I become one of them!"_

 _"I…"_

 _"KILL ME!" Newt was screaming now, the effects of the Flare in full swing as he yelled at Thomas like a maniac. His eyes were unseeing and filled with rage. Thomas panted from where he lay with Newt pinning him down, the blond holding the barrel of the gun against his own head while Thomas' finger rested at the trigger. For a few moments, the anger_

 _melted away, replaced with someone that Thomas actually knew._

 _"Please, Tommy. Please," he begged. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch, and pulled the trigger._

 _BANG!_

 _The tense hands holding him down loosened and the weight of his friend rolled away. No._

 _"No…" he whispered._

"NO!"

Thomas shot up, panting heavily as he tried to process his surroundings. He wasn't in the Glade, or somewhere in the Scorch. Oh. Paradise…

How could it be called Paradise when he only ever felt like hell?

"Thomas?" a voice asked, causing Thomas to stiffen. "Thomas? What's wrong?"

He didn't want to turn around but that would increase Minho's suspicions even more, so with a shaky voice he hoped was relatively steady said "Nothing."

"Mate, I can see you shaking from here," came the response. Thomas sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, freezing as he did so. His cheeks were wet. He'd been crying.

Crap.

He listened as Minho stood up with a groan and walked over to him. As he sat down, Thomas turned his face away and refused to look back up.

"Thomas, it's not gonna get better unless you talk about it," Minho sighed. "I don't care how sappy this is. It's basically just us now. Maybe Newt's running around as a Crank at the moment but really, we're the only Gladers left. You, me and Fry." He gestured over to where Frypan snored softly, but Thomas didn't look. He was too busy trying to not have a breakdown like some pathetic kid.

He mumbled something completely incoherent, and when Minho didn't make any sign of having heard him, Thomas repeated himself, barely above a whisper.

"He's not."

"Huh?"

Thomas' face screwed up and finally the tears began to flow. "He's not. Newt. He's not…he's not running around as a Crank. Or anything."

"What do you mean?" Minho asked softly. This time Thomas did shudder, unable to stop himself. He moved to wipe his face again, but didn't move back. Tears were flowing freely down his face, and just as Minho made up his mind to not push it any further Thomas let out a sob.

"I know it hurts, man," Minho tried to comfort him, awkwardly clapping a hand down on Thomas' shoulder. He's never been good at this - not since he woke up in the maze and he's fairly certain not before it either. "But I need to know. I'm not gonna tell you it'll make you feel better, but you can't hold it in. Get that crap outta your shucking head."

With a shaky exhale, Thomas finally answered, before completely breaking again. "He's dead."

Even though Minho had subconsciously already known, it still hurt to hear it out loud. And while he didn't know Thomas' reasons for drawing that conclusion, he didn't doubt the statement. "…How could you know that?"

"Because it's my fault."

This time it was Minho who froze. He briefly forgot to breathe, and only remembered after processing Thomas' struggled pants. "It's not your fault. How could it be your fault?" Thomas's voice, which until then had been barely a whisper, suddenly rose to the point where he was practically screaming.

"BECAUSE I DID IT!" he yelled, and Minho was silently thankful that they were pretty far off from the rest of the group. "I HELD A DAMN GUN AND PULLED THE SHUCKING TRIGGER BECAUSE HE _MADE_ ME!"

It was like the flood gates had just been opened - admitting what had happened seemed to cement the events in Thomas' mind and he curled himself into a somehow tighter ball, tugging angrily at his hair. Minho knew he should try and stop him, but he couldn't move. Newt was dead.

Newt was dead because Thomas had shot him.

Minho looked over to where Frypan lay. He was still in the same position as he was before but was no longer snoring or breathing evenly. He was awake, and had probably heard everything. Minho wanted to go over to him, but there were more pressing matters at hand in the form of a broken teen about to go prematurely bald.

"Thomas," Minho said, not bothering to be quiet now that there was no one to wake up. When the kid didn't look up, Minho sighed and grabbed his wrists, prying his hands away from his scalp. Thomas didn't resist, but refused to look up. Minho could see the droplets of tears hanging off his eyelashes as he stared intently at the floor, silently trembling. "Thomas," he repeated. "It's not your fault."

"How?"

Minho sighed. "Like you said, he made you. You had the respect for him to kill him before he could kill someone else or go full Crank. You let him die with dignity, and honestly? I couldn't have done it. It's good that it was you. He cared about you, mate."

Slowly, Thomas lifted his head enough to be able to see Minho through his eyelashes. After staring with such a broken look that Minho thought he might cry too, Thomas finally whispered, "How are you not mad?"

"How could I be?" he responded quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"But I shot him. He was my friend and I shot him."

"Better you than some random guy who wouldn't bother to remember."

With a shaky sigh, Thomas pushed himself up to stand and walked outside. Minho would join him in a second, but for now left Thomas to his thoughts.

 _We're messed up_ , he thought, resting his arms on his knees and watching Thomas through the gap of the doorway. He stood unmoving except for the wind in his hair and clothes. _We're just a few messed up shanks and that's all we'll ever be._

 _But maybe we'll be alright._


End file.
